Southbound From Central City
by sprygirl
Summary: A One-Shot imagining the nighttime drive home from Central City after the Flash-Arrow Crossover. Felicity and Oliver talk quietly while Dig sleeps in the back of the van. A moment.


Diggle fell asleep on the palette in the back of the van almost immediately. Felicity climbed, all elbows and knees and heeled shoes, to plop into the front seat, and Oliver thought about a cat he'd watched once in Hong Kong, stepping through flowerpots on a windowsill without, somehow, knocking any over. He'd been laying in wait for one of Waller's targets nearly the whole day at that point, and he remembered longing to get up and stretch like the cat. He shook his head to get rid of the memory (all the blood at the end) and Felicity said, "You sure you're Ok to drive?"

He nodded. "How's Dig?"

"I got him covered up- it's cold back there. You sure the bike is strapped in well? Because that would be a nasty way to wake up."

"I'm sure." Oliver smiled, glancing in the rearview. Snores pinged against the metal of the van walls and the motorcycle anchored in the back. "Our biggest man, brought down by a baby."

"Almost like you were last night!" Felicity said brightly, and then, hearing herself, shook her head and said, "I mean…"

Oliver let her dangle, but he couldn't help his smile as it spread over his mouth. He steadfastly looked at the road, even though he knew she was blushing. She tried again: "I mean I didn't mean…not _baby_…" She gave up, and whispered, "Sorry, Barry. "

Felicity shucked off her shoes and curled her legs under her as the van rocked its way over the dark highway. Oliver thought of the cat again.

"We didn't get the boomerang guy."

"No."

"Cisco said he'd email us when he's done with his tests."

"Ok," Oliver heard himself say. It occurred to him that he was speaking in monosyllables, and that he should be more…entertaining maybe. But he didn't feel self-conscious. He wasn't sure why – whether it was because it was Felicity or because he'd given up on Felicity. Maybe both. He'd live with both, and the attendant longing. Longing was something he could discipline. He remembered that he had not, in fact, gotten up all those years ago and stretched like the cat.

Felicity turned her head from the road and said, with some caution, "It's nice, what Dr. Wells said about your dad. It made you happy."

Oliver didn't answer for a long time. He thought of his father and the idiot young man he'd been when he had his last conversation with him. Thought of the girl he'd seen in the coffee shop and how egregiously young and privileged he'd been for so long. How purposeless. He finally found his voice to say, "I just didn't want to waste my life."

Felicity, who had given up on conversation, startled at his rusty voice. She turned hear head from the road back to him and watched his profile for a long time. And then she turned her whole body in the seat, curling up sideways facing him, still leaning her head on the seatback. She reached out and he felt her hand, very warm, on his arm. She squeezed, and whispered, "You have not wasted your life, Oliver. You make us proud." She kept her hand there, squeezed again as if to make her words sink in.

He nodded a short nod, and felt the pricking behind his nose and eyes that this person -this goddamned _person _alone, with her ponytail and glasses and her _skirts_- always brought out of him. He rolled his eyes at it, and on the way couldn't help but glance a quick glance at her hand touching him, noticed her fingers painted –was that yellow? - made him distract himself with the funny of it. But it was no use. He heard her voice again, dropped very low, her most serious tone: "You make _me_ very proud."

She let go. His arm felt very cold where her hand had been; the rest of him felt very hot. He breathed out a shaky breath, and wiped at his face with his glove.

When he chanced a look over at her again, she had her eyes closed, merciful woman.

He stared at the road, the yellow dashes slipping over and over under the van. He yawned an enormous yawn. He reached for his coffee but lifted a disappointingly light cup. All gone. Felicity's cup in the holder next to his was there with its cover still on – bright fuchsia where she'd drunk already. What the hell, he thought, reaching silently to get it. It was warm, a little, miracle of miracles. He pressed his lips to the cup (suppressing the little thrill he got at the vicarious lip print…_I am not in junior high school, I am not in junior high school_) and drank.

His howl woke Felicity up. "What happened?" She saw his face, constricted, "Oh my god Oliver are you shot?" She scanned him frantically, taking in, finally, the cup. "Hey! That's mine!"

"Oh god take it, take it from me. Felicity what IS that?"

"Fat free latte with four sugars – What?"

"I can't, I just – wow. That's something. That is punishment in a cup."

"You have a weird idea of punishment then. Shoot, maybe that's one of those syndromes for PTSD'ers.."

"Hey!"

"Just saying.."

"Well, just say something else. I'm tired and I'm driving and there's no real coffee. Keep me awake by talking to me."

Felicity smiled. "Well, if you say so. You asked for it, Mister. Let's see…you want to hear my theory on creepy Dr. Wells and Caitlin's dead boyfriend?"

Oliver smiled. The lights of Central City faded behind them as the van sped southward, homeward bound.


End file.
